


Threnodies

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [13]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, WAFFY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aveline brings Carver some news, and an old Templar's secret shows up at the front gate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threnodies

**Author's Note:**

> The "underage" tag is for the implied/attempted sexualization of a minor, but nothing actually happens.

     Not how it should have been.

     It was the end of the day, and Carver was tired.  He'd spent the afternoon sparring with each of the junior knights, and it was a measure of their growing skill that several of them had actually made him work for the win.  And that morning he'd presided over the first wedding between mages in the Gallows -- ever -- which had been strange and wonderful and a little sappy and surprisingly pleasurable, but still a lot of work.  Katya and Dellree had written their own vows -- and rewritten them three times, necessitating some ad-libbing on Carver's part and total improvisation by both women when they'd forgotten the latest version.  But the thrown-together lines they'd spoken had been perfect, because they were heartfelt.  Carver had stood at ceremonial guard with Cullen afterward, keeping a Templar's watch while the apprentices levitated decorative lanterns and the happy couple danced beneath them, and he had been surprised to find himself a little choked up.  Then Cullen's hand had brushed the back of his.

     "If we had done this, you would have lost your temper at some point and threatened all the guests, my knight."  And Carver burst out laughing because it was probably true.

     "Then somebody would've disrespected me, and you'd've done a Smite on the whole reception and put the Gallows on lockdown," he retorted.

     "Perhaps," said Cullen, but he was grinning.  This too was probably true.

     But the exchange helped Carver maintain his manly dignity, as Cullen had probably intended, so he was grateful.  He'd allowed himself one small moment of mooniness after that, lifting Cullen's dress-mailed hand to kiss the red steel cuff across its wrist; Cullen had held the cuff to his breast and bowed in private salute.  Then they'd both resumed an appropriate guard stance.  It was a good moment, in a good day. 

     But while the mages could revel into the night, Carver had had work to do, and now that he'd done it, he really only wanted his bed and a bath and a book and Cullen, in that order.  Thus he was not in the best of moods when one of his lieutenants came and told him there was a problem at the Gallows gate.

     Carver got there to find three of his junior knights surrounding a girl of perhaps ten, or a poorly-grown twelve:  dark-haired, gray-eyed, and a Kirkwaller by the shape of her face -- though there was something else about her, a straightness to her nose, a bit of a point to her ears, that hinted at elven heritage.  She was dressed in plain, worn clothes, and her hair was neatly styled, though she was painfully thin.  That might have only been puberty, though; Carver could remember Bethany being that spindly at the same age.

     "So what's this?" he asked as he walked up, and the girl's eyes widened a little.

     "Big Ferelden," she murmured, before Carver's men could speak.  "Blue eyes, black hair... are you Carver Hawke?"

     Carver blinked in surprise and folded his arms.  "Yeah, Knight Captain Carver Hawke.  Who the Void are you?"

     Relief washed over the girl's expression, and she swallowed hard.  "My name's Emeris," she said.  "Um, a Templar named Emeric was my father.  I think.  And... I think I might be... a mage."

#

     Later, as they sat in the bath, he tried to explain it to Cullen.

     "Emeric told her to come here if she was ever in a bind," he said.  "And if she couldn't talk to him, then she was to ask for me or a couple of other Templars, only -- the ones Emeric figured wouldn't see a little girl and think of what they could do to her."  Carver sighed.  "He always did fret about the ladies.  Didn't realize he was _fucking_ any, though, the old horndog."

     Cullen, half asleep already, carded fingers idly through Carver's wet hair.  "He was a good man.  And _is_ the girl in some sort of bind?"

     "Yeah.  Her mum's a whore at the Rose, and she's done a decent-enough job of raising the girl so far.  But Emeris is at that age, and the customers are starting to ask, and that pimping soul-selling vampire Lusine's starting to give her the eye.  Emeris doesn't want to follow in mum's footsteps."

     "They would expect that of a child so young? How... grotesque."

      "Yeah."  Carver shifted in the water, trying to contain his anger; there were aspects of life in Kirkwall he would never, ever understand.  "So she comes here, and tells the guards at the gate she's a mage and she's turning herself in.  But Cull -- "  He sighed.  "If that girl's a mage, I'm a dwarf.  She's got as much magic in her as that bar of soap over there."

     Cullen's fingers stopped their carding.  "Why would a child claim magery if -- "  And then he sighed.  "Ah.  I see."

     "Right."  Unable to relax, Carver finally sat up, propping his arms on his knees and sighing.  "Because there's a few things in the world worse than being a mage, and she's staring at all of 'em:  starvation, forced prostitution, Maker knows what else.  She figures she can get three squares a day and a roof over her head if she's here, and she's right.  Doesn't help Emeric's filled her head with tales of what the Gallows was like back in the good old days...  Did you know?"  He twisted around to look at Cullen.  "Every time I went to the Rose, you know, back when I was doing Adriano, Emeric was always there.  I never saw him go up to the rooms.  Figured he just wanted a drink in a classier place than the Hanged Man.  But apparently he was there visiting the girl."  Carver shook his head.  "Trying to be a father to her, best as any Templar could be."

      Cullen sat up as well, smoothing hands over Carver's back.  "As I said:  he was a good man.  I did not know him well, alas; he was not fond of me, given my loyalty to Meredith.  I imagine I was not on the list of 'safe' people for his daughter to contact."  But then he sighed.  "But Carver, if the child is no mage..."

     "I know.  I know."  The Gallows could barely feed the mages it had.  With feelings running high over the war, the Formari shops had not done well in recent months; Chantry loyalists preferred to go without enchanted weapons than patronize mages.  Bran had made up some of the shortfall with city funding, but Cullen had already been forced to cancel raises for the knighted Templars, and to reduce the starting wage for new recruits.  But --  "I couldn't just turn her out on the streets, Cull."

     Cullen shushed him and kissed the nape of his neck.  "You did the right thing.  If the girl has declared herself a mage, then by law we must hold her for evaluation by the First Enchanter.  Perhaps she's right, and her magic is simply too weak for you to sense.  In the meantime -- in case _you_ are right about her lack of magic -- I shall make inquiries.  Perhaps we can find a place for her somewhere."

     Carver shook his head.  "Cull, you know the orphanage went up with the Chantry.  And there's been no Sisters or anything here to reestablish it, 'cause the Divine fucking hates us.  Anybody who's got a place for a kid can just open up the door; they litter the streets.  Who's gonna want one more?"  He shook his head.  He'd seen a lot of orphans in Kirkwall over the years:  on the streets, in the sewers, at the end of a slaver's chain.  Now there were just _more_ of them.  Kirkwall could be the worst city in the world in some ways.

     Cullen's hands had grown still; by his silence, Carver knew he was thinking the same thing.

     "Inquiries," Cullen said then, firmly.  "Don't lose heart before we try, Carver.  Between Bran and I, I'm certain we can come up with something."

#

     But that was the most pleasant of the shocks Carver was to have, that week.

     He'd just finished inspecting the men for morning muster the next day when he happened to pass the gate that led to the courtyard and spied a familiar red head through the porticullis.  Pivoting, he went to meet Aveline, nodding to the men on guard so they would let her through.

     "You seem... content," she said.  They had exchanged the usual greetings, and now strolled together through the Templar wing.  "I don't believe I've ever seen you so happy, Carver.  Married life suits you."

     Carver chuckled and blushed a little, rubbing his nose awkwardly.  "Yeah.  Um.  Yeah."

     "Still strange to see you in that uniform, though."  Aveline shook her head, a bemused look on her face. "I suppose I've kept thinking of you as the rude boy we met in the hills that terrible day when the darkspawn came.  But here, now, with the flame on your chest and a smile on your face, you remind me of Wesley."

     Carver snorted.  "Really?  I thought he was a git in tin plate back then."  He sighed.  "Always figured that was why you didn't like me much, 'cause the first thing you ever saw me do was give him the evil eye.  Now _I'm_ the Templar git; 'course you like me better."  He chuckled.  "Never dreamt I'd end up here, either way."

     From the corner of his eye he saw Aveline glance at him, then away.  Yet even with this warning, he did not expect what she said next.  "You're right.  I didn't think much of you then, and not for years and years... but I was wrong, Carver.  You're a fine man, a credit to the Order -- and you would have been a fine Guardsman, if I'd helped you join.  I'm sorry now I didn't."

     He stopped in hs tracks, so stunned was he, and stared at her.  She laughed, awkwardly, and added, "Well.  Everyone _has_ been too hard on you, if one compliment floors you like that."

     "Cullen compliments me all the time," Carver murmured, still a bit dazed.  Then he realized he'd said too much about things that mattered to him, so he decided to play it off.  "But I think he might be trying to get into my pants.  You figure?"

     It was enough to dispel the awkwardness.  Aveline laughed so richly that Carver suddenly understood what Wesley -- and Donnic, now -- saw in her.  So he offered his arm, and after a blink of surprise, Aveline took it and leaned against him as they resumed walking.

     "I came to give you some news," she said, "which I suppose is why I'm all over memories today.  They're cleaning things up in Lothering, trying to literally dig up the Blighted soil and start fresh.  You heard about that?"

     Carver nodded.  "I got letters from an old girlfriend about it.  Never wanted to go back, though."  They'd moved around too often during Carver's childhood; no town was truly home for him.  His family had been his home, and now that most of them were gone or moved on, Cullen and the Gallows had taken their place in his life.

     "Neither have I."  She stopped, then, and faced him.  They were at the steps which led into the Templars' Hall, before the two stumpy-looking hawk statues that Carver had jokingly named 'Gamlen' and 'Garrett'.  "Carver... they've found bodies in the hills.  All the people who didn't make it out of Lothering, they're finally giving them a proper burial."

     Carver stiffened.  Even before she said the words, he knew what she was getting at.  She grimaced a little at his look, and pushed on. 

     "They were able to identify Wesley by his armor, and... people from Lothering recognized some of Bethany's jewelry.  They're both interred in the Lothering cemetery now, but I can't stand the idea of my Wesley there surrounded by strangers, in half-Blighted ground.  I'm going to have his remains brought here to Kirkwall, and I'm going to petition Cullen to have them put in the Templar cemetery at the Gallows.  I wanted to know if... you wanted Bethany brought here, too."

#

     He was only half as drunk as he wanted to be, by the time Cullen got home.

     That was because Cullen didn't keep hard liquor in the apartment.  They did entertain from time to time, when officers or the First Enchanter came for dinner, but Cullen had poor tolerance for spirits, so they usually served wine.  Wine was fine, though.  Carver started with the ruby port, then worked his way methodically toward the lighter-colored wines; he'd reached the dark-gold dandelion wine by the time Cullen found him sprawled and half-sensible on the couch.

     "She's been -- "  Carver gestured again with the bottle, which sloshed loudly in his hand, " -- lying up there, _alone_ , in the hills all this time.  Just rotting.  The darkspawn didn't even eat her."  Somehow this was the final insult.  "What the Void, Cullen?  My sister was fucking _delicious_."

     Cullen smiled in a pained sort of way, as he had been doing since he'd sat down to try and talk Carver out of his funk.  "I have no doubt that she was, Carver."

     "Damn straight."  There was only a little left in the bottle; Carver belatedly thought to offer this to Cullen.  Cullen took it and drank the rest of the wine, which made Carver feel better.  He had to take care of Cullen.  Then he thought of how much Bethany would have liked Cullen if she'd gotten to know him, and that sort of crushed everything down into a little point of pain.  Next Carver knew, his head was in Cullen's lap and his face was wet and his throat hurt, and he wasn't certain how any of those things had happened.

     But that was all right, because Cullen would take care of him.  "Thank you."  Carver wasn't sure what he was thanking Cullen for, but he always felt like owed Cullen _something_.

     "You are always welcome, my knight."  Cullen stroked his hair gently.  "But perhaps we should get you to bed.  I imagine my lap is not so comfortable as a pillow."

     It wasn't, but it was _Cullen_ , and that made all the difference.  Except...

     "We can't leave her there," he whispered against Cullen's trouser-clad thigh.  "I was _born_ with her, Cull.  She should be here, with me."

     He could feel Cullen's nod.  "Then it seems you have a letter to write to Captain Aveline.  Tell her that of course Wesley may rest in the Gallows' yard."  He paused.  "Bethany, too, love.  She _was_ a mage, and by everything you tell me of her, she served the Maker well.  Any who do are welcome within the shelter of the Gallows; you know that."

     Surprised, Carver looked up; Cullen smiled gently at him.  Carver was powerfully tempted for a moment, but then he shook his head.  "No.  She would've been happy here, especially now that we've made this Circle sane, but... she should be with Mother."  Who had been cremated, per the Kirkwall custom, and sat in an urn in the Amell family crypt.  "Thanks, though."

     Cullen shook his head, lifted Carver's chin with a finger, and kissed him lightly.  "You are my family, and so is she.  Now; have some water, and come to bed.  In the morning we shall nurse your head, and then when Aveline has made the arragements... bring your sister home."

#

     In the morning Carver's head was not nearly so bad as it could have been.  Cullen had made him drink a full pitcher of water before bed.  Though Carver had been up half the night pissing it out, he'd felt well enough by dawn to tease Cullen into a bit of frolicking during washtime.  The Tranquil on cleaning duty might ask how so much bath soap had gotten into the living room rugs -- or not; by this point they were probably used to their commanders' peculiarities -- but Carver was satisfied enough to whistle on his way to the office after muster, and he'd made sure to put some spring in Cullen's step while he was at it.

     But he slowed and stopped whistling as he reached his office, because Apphia, the First Enchanter, was waiting for him with a grim look on her face.

     "She can't stay," Apphia said, before he reached her.  She was pacing in front of Carver's office, her arms folded, her movements brisk.  "Emeris."

     Carver rocked back on his heels.  "Did something happen?"

     She opened her mouth, then closed it.  "Perhaps it's best if you came to my office."

     As Apphia's office was just down the hall -- right across from Cullen's, though Cullen was out at a meeting with the Merchant's Guild -- going there took only a moment.  And there, sitting on her couch and glaring at each other, sat two children:  Emeris and a boy perhaps two years older.  Emeris seemed fine, if furious; someone had put a set of oversized robes on her and done her hair in pigtails.  The boy had a black eye and was holding a cloth to stanch his still-bleeding nose.

     "The fuck happened here?" Carver asked, too surprised to watch his language.  He usually tried, around the children.

     Both children started speaking at once.  Carver scowled and snapped, "Shut it.  You -- Desmond, right?  You first."

     "That's not fair!" Emeris said immediately.

     "You'll get your turn.  Go on, Desmond."

     Desmond sniffed and winced.  "She _attacked_ me," he said.  He was from Starkhaven and had the brogue; between that and his swollen nose, Carver could barely understand him.  "Just jumped on me, and I wasn't doing anything -- "

     "You _tripped_ me," Emeris said.

     "It was an accident!"  Desmond glared at her.  "I can't help it if you weren't paying attention to where you put your big clumsy feet -- "

     "Except you stuck your _bigger, clumsier_ foot out in front of me -- "

     "That's enough," said Apphia, and though she spoke quietly, both children immediately subsided. 

     Grateful for the silence, Carver sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  "Maker.  All right, first thing's getting his nose fixed.  Apphia -- shit, you're not a healer."

     "No," said Apphia, looking amused, and belatedly he realized he'd cursed again.  Well, sod it; there was a reason he left the handling of apprentices to knights who had the patience for it.  "But I've let Roald, one of the Creation teachers, know we're coming to see him after this."

     "Right.  Thanks."  He glowered at the children.  "You, Desmond, apologize for tripping her up."

     "I didn't do it on purpose, I said -- "

     "Yeah, you said, and _I don't give a shit_.  You trip somebody by accident, the right thing to do is apologize same as if you did it a-purpose.  Maybe if you'd done that she wouldn't've beat you silly.  _Apologize_."

     Desmond hunched and muttered something vaguely apologetic.

     "And you," he said to Emeris.  "Apologize for hitting him."

     Emeris lifted her chin.  "I'm not sorry I did it.  He's an arse."

     _Oh, bloody Maker, don't laugh_.  Carver managed to fight it off, but it took doing.  "Maybe he is, but he's an arse you have to get along with, and you did hit him _twice_ \-- "

     Emeris narrowed her eyes and set her jaw, and abruptly Carver saw the resemblance; yeah, she was Emeric's all right.  "I hit him a lot more than that."

     And _damn_ , but he liked her.  " -- Which is a lot more than was fair, seeing as he only tripped you once.  _Apologize_."

     She sighed and glared at Desmond and said, "I'm sorry, you arselicking kossithson duster -- "

     Apphia made a choking sound; Carver had to cough to keep himself from snickering.  He forced himself to glower.  "A _real_ apology, or I'll -- "  What?  He had no idea what to do with children; he only dealt with recruits.  "I'll put you in the bloody stocks."

     "What are stocks?"

     "Keep pushing it and you'll find out.  _Apologize_."

     Emeris' jaw flexed, but she finally sighed and said, "Sorry I hit you more than once."

     Maker.  "Right, so, Desmond, can you make it to Roald on your own?  I need to talk to the First Enchanter."

     "Yeah," Desmond muttered, and got up to leave.  Emeris hopped up as well, but Carver pointed back to the couch; she winced and sat.  When Desmond was gone, Carver sighed and glanced at Apphia, but she simply folded her arms and looked back.  Emeris wasn't a mage; she was Carver's problem to deal with.  Wonderful.

     "Look," said Carver, rubbing a hand over his hair.  "You can't just go 'round beating up people."

     "My mum said I should," Emeris said, looking hurt.  "At the Rose, if you don't put somebody down when they give you shit, next thing you know they've got you in a room with your skirts over your face.  If I wore skirts."

     Oh.  "Er, yeah, that kinda makes sense at the Rose.  But this isn't the Rose, and..."  He groped for something that might make sense to a child, or at least sound good to Apphia.  "You have to adapt.  I mean, look."  He turned so she could see his two-hander; her eyes widened appreciatively at its size.  "I _could_ just cut people's fucking heads off anytime they piss me off, yeah?  But I don't, because there's a time and a place for stuff like that -- "

     "Like your wedding," Apphia said under her breath.

     " -- and I know when to rein it in.  You have to do the same.  Because everybody else here is a mage, and the young ones can't always control it when they get mad -- "

     "I'm a mage, too," Emeris said quickly, and then turned red.

     Carver blinked and looked at Apphia.  Apphia sighed.  "Emeris, dear... You're not a mage.  And I think you know that."

     Emeris blinked, then sort of hunched, looking at the floor.  "...Oh."  They both heard her swallow.  "Yeah.  You'll send me off, then."

     Damn, he'd wanted more time on this.  "Your mother can't help you at all?" Carver asked.  "Maybe apprentice you to someone.  Maybe send you to relatives?"

     Emeris shook her head.  "She's Dalish.  Her clan's way up near Cumberland somewhere, and they wouldn't take me anyway -- I'm human, and if I've no magic then I've got nothing they'd care about."  Her shoulders hunched more.  "I _prayed_ , just like Emeric told me.  I thought, if I asked, maybe the Maker would make _me_ a mage, and save somebody else who doesn't want it."  She sighed heavily.  "Mum says the Rose is better than the street, and I guess she's right, but... shit."

     Apphia looked stricken.  Carver grimaced and said, "Well, the Knight Commander's trying to find you a place somewhere in town..."  Emeris brightened at this, but only a little.

     "But if he can't, you'll have to put me out."  Emeris sighed and squared her small shoulders.  "Well, couldn't've kept it up long, anyway, without the magic.  You want me to go now?"

     Carver looked at Apphia, who shook her head minutely, and he sighed.  "No.  You can stay for a few days.  But, uh, I don't think it's a good idea for you to go back to the apprentice dorms."

     "I can!"  Emeris sat up, anxious.  "I won't hit anybody else, I swear.  I only did that 'cause I thought Desmond might try something, and Emeric told me if you punch a mage in the face that'll stop their magic right smart."

     "Well, yeah, that does work -- " Carver began, and then cut himself off as he caught Apphia's glare.  " -- but don't hit anybody else."

     "Yes, ser."

     "For now, you should go, uh -- "

     "Perhaps you could assist the Tranquil for the day," Apphia interjected smoothly, for which Carver would be eternally grateful.  "I think you'll find them... calming, at least.  On the third floor, the stockroom; ask for Mailind and tell him you're to do chores until closing.  And I think that's an appropriate punishment for the, er, extra hitting that you did to Desmond."

     Emeris sighed.  "Yes, ser."  But she rose, and left, and when her footsteps had faded down the corridor, Carver and Apphia looked at each other.

     "Maker," he muttered, flopping down onto the couch that the children had vacated.  All of a sudden he had a new appreciation for his own parents -- because he had been a brat and a half growing up, and hadn't had the first clue how much danger he'd been putting himself in.  "She's lucky as Shartan.  Desmond could've blown her to shit, and himself too, completely by accident."

     "Yes.  But that's only part of the problem."  Apphia moved to her desk chair.  "The other children resent her, Knight Captain, for being here by choice when some of them remember being torn from their birth-families and _forced_ to come here.  You can't blame them for that."

     Carver winced.  Apphia was a better First Enchanter by far than Orsino:  elven too, but younger and more understanding about the hardships that both mages and non-mages faced.  She had a way of going for the throat in emotional situations, however, and sometimes it was hard to take.  "It's not like growing up in a whorehouse is much easier."

     "No."  Apphia sighs.  "I find myself in the unenviable position of actually wishing a child _could_ become a mage at will.  Maker help us all."

     Carver forced a laugh.  He could not help thinking of himself at Emeris' age, when he, too, had wished to be a mage as his father and siblings were.  Later, older, when he'd seen just what being a mage cost, he'd been grateful to have no magic, and to be able to protect the mages around him.  But for awhile, he had been like Emeris, desperate for the curse that others feared.

     "I want to help her," he said, softly.  "I just don't know _how_.  What if Cullen can't find a place for her?  What if there's nowhere for her to go, except..."  Apphia was gazing at him, her narrow face soft with compassion; he scowled and shook his head.  "No.  That's not going to happen.  Cullen will find a way.  Or I will."

     It made him feel better to declare it like that, even if it was so much bullshit.

     "There's nothing you can do about what _might_ happen, Knight Captain."

     Right.  Right.  Carver took a deep breath and got to his feet.  "She'll need a bed for the night, if she can't stay with the apprentices.  Maybe Brother's place..."  Technically the Amell estate belonged to Carver now, but he hadn't bothered to do more than check if his keys worked.  And it was empty, all its furnishings sheet-draped and dusty, its hearths cold and larders bare.  "No, that won't work."  There was only one solution, looming, and he grimaced as he realized there was no other option that worked.  "She'll have to stay with us.  Cull and I -- er, the Knight Commander and I, we've got a guest room."  And he did not think about what Cullen would say to using that room to house a child.  "I'll ask him about it."

     Apphia looked skeptical, but she nodded, folding her hands and resting her elbows on her desk.  "I do think it's a good thing you're doing, Knight Captain.  I hope you succeed.  But..."  She looked away and sighed.  "Kirkwall is a hard place.  Do the best you can, but remember:  you are not Andraste.  You cannot work miracles."

     Carver got to his feet, abruptly irritated -- not with her, but with a city that would throw a bright child to the wolves, and with a world that would let such a thing happen.

     "Maybe not," he snapped, "but I can sodding _try_."

#

     The day got worse from there.  One of the recruits flubbed a targeted Holy Smite in training and laid out the eldest of the Senior Enchanters as he happened to be passing the practice yard, which nearly did in the poor old fellow's heart.  After the spirit healers managed to stabilize him, Carver assigned the regretful recruit to mind the old man, sitting at his bedside through the night and fetching whatever he might need.  Then he had to endure a harangue from one of the other Senior Enchanters, who wanted the recruit cashiered and arrested by the Guard for abuse of a mage.  When Carver resisted this, the enchanter called Carver "another Meredith" and threatened to leave the Gallows. 

     Carver agreed readily, since under the terms of Cullen's Declaration of Mage Rights-and-Some-Other-Stuff-Carver-Couldn't-Be-Arsed-to-Remember, Harrowed mages could leave whenever they liked, if they didn't mind finding their own food and shelter and whatnot.  His "Fine, how soon can you get the Void out?" so floored the enchanter that the man fell silent, then turned red and shouted, "And don't think I won't!" and stormed out.  Carver's lieutenants later reported that the enchanter was sulking in his quarters, and appeared to be making no plans to leave.

     Between that and the mess with Emeris, the day that had started out so promising turned pretty thoroughly to shit, and by the time Carver dragged into the apartment it was late.  Cullen was clearly having an equally shit day; he'd racked his armor and fallen asleep on the bed fully clothed.  Carver racked his too, got his own boots and Cullen's off, then flopped alongside him and was dead to the world in moments.

     When Cullen nudged Carver awake in the morning, he grimaced in shame, for as was his wont whenever he was really tired, he'd dragged Cullen close and flopped an arm and leg over him to sort of pin him in place.  It was what Cullen jokingly called Carver's "just in case" sleeping position -- just in case Cullen awoke with something other than prayer or work on his mind, and just in case Carver was clearheaded enough to act on it.  The problem was firstly that Cullen got night terrors -- violent ones -- though for whatever reason Carver manhandling him in his sleep had never yet triggered an episode.  Carver was desperately grateful for that.  The other problem was that at this time of year, it was a recipe for waking up _hot_ , especially when they were both fully clothed.  So Carver obligingly rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes, hoping for a few minutes more of sleep before he had to get up.  "Sorry," he muttered.

     "No need for apologies."  Cullen's voice was low, warm, still thick with sleep, and why did that alone make Carver's dick get hard?  It always worked that way.  "I hate pushing you off, actually.  It is oddly pleasant, to wake up feeling... protected."

     Oh.  That was good.  Carver smiled, his thoughts drifting back toward sleep.  His body wasn't much interested in sleep -- _morning_ and _Cullen_ had that effect on him -- but it would settle down eventually.

     Then he felt Cullen's fingers dance over the cloth of his shirt.  "You almost never sleep in your clothes like this."  Carver made a noncommittal sound -- it hadn't exactly been something he'd planned.  "We both have been working too hard, lately."

     Carver yawned.  "I'll take a vacation when you do."

     Cullen chuckled at the very notion.  He was silent awhile longer, perhaps deep in thought -- but he kept stroking Carver's chest, and when he shifted closer to brush his lips against Carver's upturned elbow, Carver started to wake up a little.  Because, well, he'd been married to Cullen more than long enough to know the difference between Cullen being interested, and Cullen being _interested_ , and something about this felt like the latter.

     "Are you very tired, my knight?" Cullen breathed, and Carver lowered his arm and grinned.

     It turned out that Cullen had a thing for seeing Carver clothed and rumpled in bed -- a rarity, since Carver generally preferred to sleep naked, and since Cullen usually wouldn't admit to having _things_ of any kind.  It was nice, Carver would reflect later, that after this much time together they could still surprise one another.  And it was nicer still that Cullen showed his appreciation for Carver's clothed form by holding him down and grinding him practically into the bed frame -- until Carver saw stars and thought he might catch fire from friction, until they were both hoarse from shouting, and until Carver suspected there was no point in laundering their pants anymore.   Better just to cut them up for rags.  He'd let the Tranquil decide about that.

     Still, it was blissful, and they stayed tangled together for awhile afterward, dazed and trying to remember their own names.  Cullen lay over Carver like a heavy, sex-smelling blanket -- and thus it was Carver who let his head fall back over the edge of the bed, and Carver who took several long seconds to process what he was seeing.  Finally he understood that the upside-down figure standing in the bedroom doorway, grinning brightly at them, was _Emeris_.  Holding a folded towel from their bathroom.

     "Andraste's _arse_ ," he blurted, stiffening in not at all a good way, and Cullen jerked up surprise and saw her too.

     "Carver," he said, going still.  "Why is -- ?"

     "Oh, sorry," Emeris said, holding up the towel quickly.  "Didn't mean to startle!  Just wondering did you want this, and maybe a basin, before you start up again?"

#

     To Carver's great relief, Cullen decided to be remarkably sanguine about the whole thing.

     "It's... it's what I did, at the Rose," Emeris said in a small voice.  She sat on the edge of the couch, half hunched as she had been in Apphia's office, and the misery in her voice killed even Carver's anger.  "That's what all the kids did when they were small.  If they could be quiet.  For the clients who stayed longer than an hour, we did cleanup -- took away the toys for washing, brought fresh ones, brought Orlesian Letters for the female clients who bought a man for the evening, stuff like that.  We even changed the sheets if there was a lot of -- well.  I thought..."  She squirmed a little.  "I figured if I could be useful to you..."

     Cullen had -- after asking Emeris to excuse them for awhile -- bathed and dressed and donned his armor, and now he paced in the middle of their living room.  Carver had mustered too and stood at attention nearby, though he wasn't sure it was possible to be properly official given the subject of conversation, and given how red both their faces were.

     "Go on," Cullen prompted, stopping to gaze at the child.  "If you could be useful...?"

     "You might want to keep me."  Emeris sighed.  "Guess I cocked that up."

     Cullen grimaced and looked at Carver, and Carver shrugged helplessly.  He hadn't realized Apphia would convince the guards to let the child into their quarters, and he certainly hadn't expected that child to gleefully watch their morning fuck.  But he _had_ told Apphia they would take the girl, and it was his own fault for forgetting -- because really, where else was she supposed to go?

     If Cullen threw her out, Carver resolved with sudden passion, he would send her to the Amell house.  He had money.  He could... hire a governess or something.  Didn't orphans always have governesses, in stories about orphans?  Except sometimes they were bad governesses and the kids ran away -- shit, how did one hire a _good_ governess?  Wait, what the actual fuck _was_ a governess?  Oh, Void, he didn't know what he was doing at all.

     Cullen gazed at Carver for a long moment, then shook his head a little as if hearing the tumult of Carver's thoughts.  He moved to sit on the couch across from the girl, which made Carver brace himself.  Cullen preferred to sit when he delivered bad news.

     "We cannot adopt you," Cullen said gently, which floored Carver.  _Adoption?_   Carver hadn't even _thought_ about that.  "I would, if it were wise; Carver needs an heir, Amell that he is.  But you are no orphan, for one, and neither of us has the time to be a fit parent, for another.  Templars rarely do."

     She lowered her gaze and spoke very softly.  "I know.  Emeric was always sorry that he couldn't come by more often, because he had Templar duties.  But I didn't mind.  I... just liked that he came by at all."

     Carver suppressed a groan of anguish; Cullen smiled.  "That does sound like Emeric."  He sobered, then fell silent for a long moment.  "I had hoped to find you a place as a servant for one of the Hightown families..."  But he stopped, blinking, as the girl shuddered.

     "Hightown!  Hightown's as bad as the Rose," she said, looking haunted.  "Why d'you think the Rose's clients are mostly Templars and folks from Lowtown?  Hightowners just hire in-house whores and call 'em servants.  But at least the Rose keeps things clean and has rules about drawing blood."

     "Maker's Breath," said Cullen, flinching visibly.  Carver bit his lip, hard.  If they were actually talking stuff like adoption, he _would not_ pressure Cullen on this.  The solution would have to be something they both wanted.  But...

     Emeris' expression turned pleading.  "Can't I just keep working with the Tranquil?"

     "Working with the Tranquil will get old fast," Carver said, reluctantly.  "For one thing, they prefer to work only with other Tranquil on a regular basis; it's more 'agreeable' that way, or something.  For another, they do a lot of the cleanup for the mages.  That boy you socked in the eye yesterday -- imagine if you had to empty his chamberpot every day?"

     Emeris grimaced, then squared her shoulders.  "I'll do it if I have to," she said.  "I'm not afraid of mages!  I was named for a Templar, after all."

Yeah, just like how Carver had been --

     _Maker's Cock._

     Carver caught his breath and looked at Cullen.  Cullen blinked, then frowned.  "She is too young, Carver."

     "She isn't," Carver said, excited now.  "You told me _you_ were underage when you joined up."

     Cullen scowled.  "At _fifteen_ , yes.  Emeris, your age?"

     She blinked, looking from one to the other of them in confusion.  "I'm twelve."

     Carver grimaced.  She was tiny for twelve; he supposed that was her elf blood.  Still -- "And I bet at fifteen you were more doe-eyed than a babe compared to her, Cull, don't pretend you weren't!"

     Cullen blushed.  "I was, perhaps, rather innocent, yes.  But Carver, I had almost a man's growth at that age.  I could at least lift a sword -- "  And here he faltered, looking away.

     Carver sobered as well.  But he could not let this go, not now.  "And now you understand there's more to what we are than blades and shields."  He went to Cullen, rested a hand on his pauldron, decided _sod it, she's already seen us fucking_ , and touched the backs of his gauntleted fingers to Cullen's cheek.  "Please.  We owe it to Emeric, don't we?  If mages are a family here, shouldn't the Templars be the same?"

     Cullen frowned and took Carver's hand, plainly considering.

     "Um," said Emeris.

     "My Knight Captain is asking," said Cullen, still looking at Carver, "that the Gallows accept you as a Templar recruit."

     She inhaled, her eyes growing huge.  "Really?  Even though I'm half elf?  Even though I've never learned the Chant or even been in a Chantry or, or..."  She faltered, obviously torn between honesty and hope.

     Carver said, not really to Emeris, "Being a good Templar's not about circumstance of birth.  And I don't know my canticles from my -- well."  He grinned, and Cullen sighed in a long-suffering sort of way.

     "It will not be easy," Cullen said to Emeris, sternly.  "You will have much to prove, and more to learn.  I can grant you longer than the standard course of training on account of your age; perhaps ten years will be sufficient.  If you cannot earn your knighthood by then, however..."  He glanced at Carver, and Carver nodded.  By then, at least, Emeris would be old enough to take care of herself, and she would have money enough from ten years of recruit's pay to have a chance at a real future.

     But Emeris, who had sat up very straight on the edge of the couch, leaped to her feet and stood straighter still.  "I can do it!  I really can!" she blurted, the words tumbling over each other in her haste.  "I, I know, if you give me a chance, sers, I'll -- "  She stopped suddenly, her face blanking in thought.  "Ser Emeric, Protection of the Order," she blurted, softly.  "That was his Templar name, he said.  If I... if I become a knight, can I have that name too?"

     Cullen blinked, then an odd look came over his face.  He stood to face her, and Carver stepped smartly into place at his back. 

     "That name can indeed be yours -- _if_ you earn it," Cullen said.  "I'll not profane a good man's name by knighting anyone of lesser caliber."

     It was almost cute that Emeris clapped her fist to her breast; almost.  But her bottom lip was shaking and her other fist was tight too, and Carver saw how her nostrils flared as she fought not to cry.  It was the same sort of thing Carver had done, once long ago, when his father had asked him to protect his mage siblings.  _I'll do it or die trying,_ he had vowed then to himself, and later to Father's memory.  _I'll make you proud_.

     So Carver returned the salute promptly, in full solemnity, and after a moment, Cullen did too.

     "Then in the name of the Maker and His Bride," said Cullen, "I welcome you, Recruit Emeris, to the Order of the Knights Templar."

#

     In those first three months, Carver thought a dozen times that it would not work.

     Emeris got into a fight with a recruit five years older during her first week, and knocked the older girl's tooth out.  As a proper recruit she had to face proper discipline, so Carver put both of them in the stocks for a day.  It was a bit ridiculous because the stocks were too big for Emeris; she could pop her head and hands out whenever she wanted.  But when she saw that the other girl had been put in stocks too, she screwed up her face and said, "I'll take my licks, ser," and stood there for the rest of the day anyway.  She didn't even wriggle free when Desmond came and drew on her face with an inkbrush; Carver really had to hand it to her for that.

     That was only part of the problem, however.  Emeris couldn't lift even the smallest sword in the armory, let alone the shield.  The Tranquil cut down a gambeson Chantry robe for her and she could wear some of the chain over it, but there was no way to cut down plate armor; all she could do for the time being was wear the boots, with cotton stuffed into the toes.  The other recruits could barely restrain their snickers.  If that wasn't bad enough, it turned out she didn't know the Chant because she couldn't _read_.  Didn't help that she wouldn't try; her own illiteracy embarrassed her, and Carver's first attempts to teach her to read ended in exasperation for both of them.

     But gradually, things got better.  The other recruits started to take to her, calling her "Big Boots" more out of affection than ridicule.  To Carver's shock, the recruit whose tooth Emeris had knocked out started teaching her to read, with more success than Carver had managed.  And although Emeris couldn't use a sword, she did love whacking things with one of the smaller maces, using both hands.  One of the other recruits sketched a crude flame on its shaft in tar; another tied a pink lace bow to the hilt because Emeris apparently loved frilly shit like that.  She looked ridiculous.  But she could defend herself, and in boots and chain she had at least a little protection in a fight, so Carver just shook his head to see Emeris gleefully banging on the practice dummies alongside the other recruits.  She had good form.  If she grew a bit and got a little stronger, maybe a two-hander... well.  They'd have to wait and see.

     Carver really only started to think it would work, though, when he got another incident report from the recruit barracks, which made him groan, "Oh, what the fuck did Emeris do _now_?"  But the junior knight who'd written the report made it clear that everything had resolved itself without trouble.  Apparently a recruit had nailed one of Emeris' pigtails to her bunk.  She'd retaliated by catching him asleep in the dead of the night and pouring a bucket of cold water on his face, which caused him to fall out of the bed and make a scene; that recruit's nickname was now "Fishflops."  But there were no hard feelings between them.

     "Nailed her pigtail to the bunk, huh?"  Carver gazed at the incident report awhile longer, then put it down when he found himself grinning.

     He was still grinning later that day when he went to meet Cullen at the end of his shift, and together they carried the polished red-and-blue urn containing Bethany's ashes to the Hightown cemetery.

     There wasn't much of a ceremony to it.  Carver hadn't wanted one, really, though he did nod to see Aveline and Donnic there; he and Cullen had attended Wesley's interment in the Gallows earlier that week, so he'd expected to see them.  But Varric was there too, to his surprise, and -- Maker's Mercy.  _Isabela_ , who winked at Carver when he gaped at her.  She hadn't changed, except to have donned the world's most amazing hat:  a jaunty, edge-flared thing in deepest sea-green, adorned with white lace and long red feathers.  It suited her perfectly.

     She took the hat off, though, while Carver went into the Amell crypt and set Bethany's urn next to that of his mother.  They were all quiet while he did that.  Which wasn't right, Carver decided.  This was _Bethany_ , after all.

     So he stopped before them as he shut the door of the crypt, and glared, trying to will them to understand that this solemn shit just wouldn't do.  "My sister was a fucking hero," he said.  "She died taking on an ogre, and she saved my mother doing it; Garrett isn't the only one with stones like mountains in this family.  She..."  He faltered abruptly, and then could only think of the most inane things to say.  "I nailed her pigtail to the bed once, and she dumped a bucket of ice on my face to get back at me.  That was... _that_ was what she was like.  She liked to laugh, and have fun, and... and she probably would've liked to do other things, if she'd only had somebody to show her how."  He glanced at Isabela; Isabela snorted in amusement.  But it was true.  "She would've loved all of you."

     When he ran out of things to say, Varric cleared his throat.  "Well.  I don't know a lot about human funeral customs, Junior, but in Kirkwall the place to celebrate heroes who like to laugh and have fun -- and do other things -- " He too grinned at Isabela, "is the Hanged Man.  Think she'd have liked us to share a round in her honor?"

     Carver relaxed.  "Yeah.  If somebody could've gotten her to drink something..."  And he damn sure would've tried, "...yeah."

     "Well, then."  Varric shrugged.  "Why don't we retire there, and you can tell us all about the littlest Hawke?  First round's on me."

     Carver glanced uneasily at Cullen, who had followed Meredith's policy of forbidding Templars from the Hanged Man for the sake of appearances.  But Cullen chuckled and took his hand.

     "This once, I can make an exception," he said gently.  "But perhaps we had better leave our armor at the Gallows before we go.  That way, we are not Templars drinking to a mage's death; we are merely family, past and present, celebrating our own."

     Relieved, Carver squeezed Cullen's hand.  "Yeah, she'd have liked you fine, now that you don't have a stick in your arse about mages anymore."

     "Thank you, my knight -- I think."  But Cullen's wry look softened when Carver leaned in and touched their foreheads together, in lieu of a kiss.

     "That's it?"  Isabela folded her arms and looked indignant.  "You're married now, puppy; the least you could do is give your husband a bit of tongue in public."

     "Perhaps once I've had a drink," said Cullen in his driest tone, and they all stared at him for a moment before laughing.

     Carver glanced back at the crypt once as they walked away, however, and wondered why such a simple thing had made him feel so different.  Bethany wasn't any less dead now that her body was here in Kirkwall; her death wasn't any less ignominious and wrong.  Yet it did help, somehow, to see that urn on the shelf next to Mother's.  It helped more that there were people here who wanted to know of her, and who understood just what her loss meant to him.  When Aveline caught his eye, she gave him a rueful smile.  He returned it, thinking of Wesley, and might-have-beens.

     _Wish you were here, Bethy_.  But for the first time in a long, long while, it did not hurt to think those words.

     "Are you well, my knight?"  Cullen spoke quietly, taking his hand as they walked.

     Carver ducked his head.  "Yeah.  Wish Brother could have been here, but..."  He shrugged.  "Glad _you_ were here, though."  Because love was love, wasn't it?  And Bethany deserved to have love all around her, one way or the other.

     Cullen only smiled and lifted Carver's hand to kiss the wrist-cuff.  "Always."

     Then Garrett's -- no.  Then _Carver's_ friends waved or leered or laughed, and they all went off to get drunk together.  Which was precisely the way things should be, Carver felt -- and no less an honor than his baby sister deserved.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, I figured it was time for something a little lighter after all that heavy shit I wrote in the Warden Arcanum, and the latter few chapters of the Canticles here. Apologies for the sappiness of it, though I tried to go for "bittersweet"; it's a fine line to walk, and I'm not sure I achieved it in this case. Always so hard to write Carver's PoV; the man thinks in comedy. But I think I needed a laugh anyway.


End file.
